A Fighting Man
by logophilia
Summary: Will knows that Halt is getting old. But this? This isn't supposed to happen.


**Summary**: Will knows that Halt is getting old. But this? This isn't supposed to happen.

**Warnings**: Character death. PWP.

**Notes**: Yeah. Um. Sorry if the characters are a bit (or a lot) off; it's been ages since I've even thought about Ranger's Apprentice. This story's been sitting, half-written in a word document for ages, and has been sitting as an idea in a dusty corner of my brain for even longer. I hope you enjoy! Reviews are love.

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

It's a beautiful day.

The sun beams at the little cottage. Drifting across the sky are white, fluffy clouds that rarely exist outside fanciful drawings made by young children. Will can hear the melodic calls of birds and the rustling of the trees as the breeze picks through them.

He hates it. Wants to pick up a pile of dirt and smudge it all over the sky, to make the world as ugly as he feels. It's Halt's favourite kind of day. A minute part of Will tells him that it's a good sign, that the weather's honouring them for the occasion, but the cheerful atmosphere makes it seem like a day for happiness and celebrations, and this day is anything but.

Today is _the day._

* * *

><p><strong>one year ago<strong>

There's something wrong with Halt.

Will knows it, even though he doesn't want to. Halt is acting oddly. Forgetting things here and there. Sometimes he'll say that he's going to run an errand somewhere, only to be found five minutes later, sitting on the porch and watching the birds. His mood swings can compete with that of a teenager's. Will doesn't know when it all started (_if something did start, _he reminds himself – maybe there really is nothing wrong with Halt) but he knows it's getting worse.

He tries to shrug it off. Cracks jokes about old age and slaps on a grin. But sometimes, when nobody's watching, he isn't so sure. He isn't sure at all.

But Halt is invincible. Halt in indestructible. There can't be anything wrong with him, right?

(_Right_?)

But Pauline keeps insisting and, finally, Will relents, so a visit to the medic isn't going to be postponed any longer.

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

"Are you ready?" Alyss asks.

He stares at her for a moment, her words washing over him. He knows she means well, but a sudden, irrational surge of anger wells up, spilling through him like fresh water flooding through a dry river. _Is he ready for the funeral? _

_Of course _he's not ready. _Of course_ he's not ready to say goodbye to the person who taught him everything, the person who had watched him grow over the years, the person who always believed in him and never, ever let him down.

But as he turns around and sees Alyss's concerned gaze, his anger evaporates. "No. Let's go."

The next moment passes in silence, which Alyss interrupts with a simple, "I'm here."

Will nods. It's true, and he's grateful. "I know you are."

* * *

><p><strong>one year ago<strong>

The doctor's smile is apologetic. Will hears _sorry_ and _disease_ and _nothing_ _we_ _can_ _do_ and _it's a pity, Ranger_.

He says that he doesn't know what it is, but he's seen it twice in his life and both times, the victim didn't make it.

Those aren't good odds, and Will knows what it means.

The doctor says _sorry, there's no treatment. Sorry, there's no cure. Sorry, sorry, sorry._

Will is already so damn tired of that word.

He takes a look at Halt, _really _looks, and suddenly can't quell the stinging behind his eyes. The grey-haired ranger just looks tired, so unbelievably _old._

Because this is Halt that they're talking about and the idea of _Halt_ and _disease_ and _death_ being in the same sentence is unthinkable.

It can't be real.

But it is.

The chair's falling to the floor with a _clank_ before he registers the fact that he stood up. Leaving the chair where it is, he exits the house. Mounts Tug and lets him lead the way home.

So what if he's acting petulant and selfish?

Halt is dying, and the doctor says _sorry._

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

There aren't too many people at the funeral. Most of the Ranger Corps are there, along with the handful of people who know (_knew, _Will reminds himself) Halt personally.

He hasn't got a speech prepared because every time he tried to write one, he ended up putting more tears than ink into the paper. And whenever he'd held his quill over the paper, wondering how on earth it was even possible to express everything Halt had done for him, and what he'd come to mean, his lungs seemed to constrict and it felt like something heavy was pressing on his chest.

The speeches start. Crowley. Pauline. Baron Arald. Gilan. Alyss. Sir Rodney. Will wonders if there's an invisible wall separating them because he doesn't hear anything they say. Finally, there comes a time when Will knows it's his turn because there's nobody up at the front and Alyss is nudging him gently.

* * *

><p><strong>eleven months ago<strong>

Will is running. From what, he isn't sure. But maybe if he runs fast enough, he'll be able to leave everything here behind. Maybe if he runs for long enough, the problems of today won't be able to catch up with him.

But, eventually, he has to stop, and reality crashes into him again.

Will knows that Halt's getting old. _Is _old. But this? This isn't supposed to happen.

Halt isn't supposed to get a disease.

One day, Will knows that Halt's going to have to go, but he never expected anything like this. He thinks of quiet days of watching the sun rise and set. Halt will make too much coffee, but they'll drink it all anyway. He'll sing and play his mandola, and Halt will make fun of him and call it a lute. Alyss, Pauline, Will and Halt will all camp under the stars listening to the wind whistle through the trees. Then, one day, when they're all ready, Halt will slowly drift away in his sleep, and it will be peaceful.

One day.

Not any time soon. Nowhere close to _now. _

He isn't ready now.

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

Despite his years of Ranger training, he stumbles twice on his walk to the podium. The casket is in adorned with too many bouquets of flowers, and the perfume is sickening.

Suddenly urgent to begin, he says the only word in his mind:

"Halt."

He swallows twice. Opens his mouth and closes it again.

How on earth can he put into words everything that Halt was? He wants to say that Halt was the father he'd never got to have. He wants to tell everyone about how reliable he old man was, how he was there for Will every single time. He wants everyone to know about the first time he saw Halt smile, and how it lit up his whole face, replacing his grim demeanour with the kindness and humour underneath. How whenever Will fed Tug an apple, Halt was always there chiding his apprentice, when he knew that Abelard was spoiled even more. How Halt made Will the person who he is.

So he does something he hasn't done for months.

He sings.

He sings the first tune that enters his head. The one that Halt hated, and the one that Will loves. Before he has time to think through what he's about to do, the words are out of his mouth.

"_Graybeard Halt is a fighting man._

_I've heard common talk that Graybeard Halt he cuts his hair with a carving knife and fork._

_Fare the well, Graybeard Halt, fare thee well I say._

_Fare the well, Graybeard Halt, tomorrow's another day."_

Silence. Even the birds are quiet. Will trudges back to his seat in a daze and doesn't even notice the stares.

It's over.

* * *

><p><strong>four months ago<strong>

For the second time in two days, Will comes home to a Halt who's sitting at the writing desk, head drooping and snoring softly.

He shakes him mentor's arm softly.

"Will?" Halt grumbles. "That you?"

"Yeah. You need to get to bed. C'mon."

"Wait." A hand grasps Will's shirt. Halt looks up at his former apprentice, and Will is mortified to see that Halt is crying. Something in his chest clenches painfully. Halt shouldn't ever have to feel scared, afraid, vulnerable.

"Will, I…"

"Yeah." Will swallows painfully. "Yeah, Halt, I know." He holds Halt's hand and helps him to his feet. "I know."

Will knows that he's barely hanging on, and that if Halt says something like, _It's going to be okay, boy_, or _I'm proud of you, Will_, then the frayed strings that he's clinging on to are going to break.

"Come on, Halt."

"Wait. I need you to promise something for me," Halt says gruffly.

Will blinks. That isn't what he was expecting. "Yeah. Anything."

"When… when _it _happens, you can't give up, do you hear me?"

"You know I won't."

"You keep…doing what you're doing, you keep trying. Promise me, Will."

"Okay. Yes. I promise, Halt."

Halt seems to relax after that, leaning heavily on Will. "Good," he says. "Good."

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

When the funeral is over, Will gets up off his chair as fast as he can and leaves. The others will want to offer him meaningless condolences, and he doesn't want to hear them.

So he just walks. Keeps on walking until he feels like stopping. Closing his eyes, lies down on the grass and focuses on the simple _in _and _out _of breathing.

It's a good way to lose track of the time.

Suddenly, a gentle hand touches his shoulder. It's Alyss, he knows, because it always is. Somehow, she always finds a way to get to Will.

"It's not fair," he voices out loud. He doesn't care if he sounds childish and needy, because, at the moment, that's exactly what he is.

"It never is," Alyss agrees. She rubs her hand on his back and he lets himself get lost in the black fabric on her shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>one month ago<br>**

Halt is bedridden and feeble. He'd caught a common cold two weeks ago. Will remembers a time when a cold was a trivial affair, something for him to tease Halt about and something for the older man to grumble about.

But it's like Halt's body has forgotten how to fight back. Two weeks and his condition only seems to be deteriorating.

Clutching a glass of water, he approaches Halt's bed. "'Morning, Halt. How're you feeling today?"

The bedcovers twitch. Will recognises it as an attempt at a shrug.

"Well, if you're not feeling too bad… well, I really just wanted to have a day out today. It's been ages. You, me, Alyss, Pauline, you know? Jenny brought over some bread rolls and pies yesterday, and Alyss made some jam, so we could ride into the forest, have a picnic…."

Will's rambling, he knows he is. He clamps his mouth shut and waits for Halt to reply.

"If that's what you want, Will," he rasps. Will winces at the gravelly voice, realising that he's still holding the glass of water. Belatedly, he raises it to Halt's lips and lets him drink.

"Yeah. Okay. Only if you can, though. But it's just that I really wanted us to go out once more, before—"

Once again, Will shuts his mouth. But it's too late. They both know what he meant to say.

_Before you die._

The moment passes, though, and just before noon, the quartet sets out on their horses. Will's worried about wearing Halt out, so they stop at the first clearing they see, laying down picnic mats and unpacking the baskets.

Hours pass in good-natured bantering and eating. Will even manages to coax a few smiles out of his former mentor. True, Halt only takes a few bites of his pie and spends the better part of his time lying down, but Will's going to take what he gets.

All in all, the day goes well.

The next morning, when Will approaches Halt's room with a glass of water, he's still bedridden and feeble.

The only difference is that Halt isn't breathing.

* * *

><p><strong>now<strong>

_Dear Will,_

_I'm going to die. I know it and so do you. So I'm writing this letter for Pauline to give to you when it happens._

_Don't feel sorry or angry about my death. I've had a long life, I've saved a lot of lives, I've done a lot of things. If there was any way I wanted my life to go, this is it. Of course I would have wanted to live longer, but you have to be grateful for what you've got and I know plenty of good people who died a lot younger than I am now. Like your parents. They were great people, just like you. They would be so proud of you, just like I am._

_I'm so proud of you. I always have been and I always will be. You've made a lot of mistakes and you're going to make a lot more. But what matters is that you'll admit that you made mistakes, and you're going to learn and grow even more from them. And when it gets down to it, I know you'll make the right decisions where they count._

_I want to say thank you. Thank you for bringing a spark into my life when you first became my apprentice. You're so full of life that it seems to flow from you, touching everyone you meet. So thank you for bringing meaning and happiness into my life. _

_Don't be sad for me. Don't be sad about me. You keep living your life, Will, and you keep smiling and laughing and don't you dare give up. Remember what I taught you._

_Goodbye, Will. I love you._

_Halt._

Will continues to stare at the letter long after he's finished reading. He reads it again: once, twice, three times.

It's not enough. It will never be enough.

He folds the piece of paper and shoves it into his pocket. Thinks about the promise he made to Halt four months ago.

It's not enough.

But it's something.


End file.
